The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

great!” The despairing look on his face changed to a smile. “A lot of kids would panic in a situation like this and yell for the skipper to do something, but here you are, cool as a cucumber, offering to help. That’s really great!”
    “Oh, we’ve been in lots worse scrapes than this and managed to survive,” Trixie assured him.
    “Neither wind nor storm nor hail nor a broken rudder can stay us in the completion of our appointed task,” Mart said, trying to look solemn.
    “At the moment, our appointed task seems to be to get home,” Peter chuckled. He decided to take the sails down and try to paddle back, using the one oar. He was doing all right until he reached a point where the force of the eddy slackened, and it soon became apparent that they were making no headway against the tide. In fact, the current was slowly but surely carrying them out into the bay and back toward the lighthouse.
    “Mart, break out the anchor. If the water isn’t too deep here, it may catch on the bottom,” Peter said.
    But this plan failed to work; the water was too deep for the length of cable on the anchor. Then Peter tied a line to the plastic bucket he carried in the boat and let it down over the stern. “This is one way to improvise a sea anchor,” he said, “and it may keep us from drifting quite so fast.”
    As he worked, he kept glancing around him and finally said, “Someone will be coming along soon who will give us a tow, although there aren’t many boats out this early in the season.”
    Trixie thought she sensed a note of anxiety in Peter’s voice, although he was obviously doing his best to reassure them and to appear casual about their situation. “I’ll hoist this red flag, just in case someone does come along. They’ll see we’re in trouble and not just fishing,” he said as he produced a small red pennant from the drawer in the stern of the boat.
    “Is that what the flag is for?” asked Diana.
    “No, it’s really a protest flag,” Peter answered. “We use it during a race, when we see someone making a foul and want to enter a protest to the race committee. Actually, we don’t often use it, but it’s required equipment, and I guess it’s lucky I followed the rules and had one aboard.”
    They were all on the alert for a passing boat, but the minutes ticked away without any sign of help showing up. Star Fire was being carried down the bay and, as they all realized, out to sea. Suddenly Peter’s face brightened. “You know, I think if I use the paddle as a rudder, I may be able to steer us up to the red nun, and we can tie up there. At least, it’s worth a try.”
    He had no sooner put the oar in the water than they all heard the noise of a motorboat in the distance. A small yellow speedboat was plowing toward them. They stood up and began to yell and wave their arms as it approached, but to their amazement it kept coming at full speed, passed within a few feet of them, and careened away. Star Fire pitched and tossed in the wake of the boat, and Peter, trying to keep his footing, yelled, “You bums, that’s just like a stinkpot!”
    “Do you know those two characters?” asked Trixie, when she had gotten her breath.
    “Never saw them before in my life,” answered Peter, “and I don’t want to again! Did anyone notice the number on their boat? They ought to be reported to the Coast Guard!” he added angrily.
    “I’m not sure, but I don’t think there was a number on it,” replied Trixie. “All I saw was a dragon painted in green on the front.”
    The others agreed that they hadn’t seen a number on the speedboat, either, only a green dragon with a long forked red tongue.
    After the waves caused by the speedboat had subsided, Peter continued to edge Star Fire toward the buoy, and after what seemed hours, he brought her close enough for Mart to throw a line over it and secure the boat. They helped take off the sails and stow them in the sail bags, coil all the lines, and get everything shipshape in the cockpit.
    It was growing darker, but they were all so relieved to be tied fast that they didn’t immediately think about the problem of getting home. Peter, whose shorts were still wet from his dive into the bay, was beginning to shiver, so Trixie suggested he wrap his legs up in an old sweat shirt that she had found under one of the seats. They all put on the extra sweaters they had brought and prepared to sit it out until help arrived.
    Peter started to sing a sea chantey.